


we've people to see (let's put 'em on hold)

by smoothniallsmooth



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Daddy Kink, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mouth-Fucking, Pain Kink, Riding, Smut, and zayns just a presumptuous dipshit, bottom!Louis, city AU, dom-space, harrys a lame tourist, hes still daddy tho obvs, is that a thing?, liams a daddy, louis' a businessman/germaphobe, nialls a drunk cabbie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-02-07 08:16:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1891812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smoothniallsmooth/pseuds/smoothniallsmooth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>He attempts to twist so he can breathe, but this boy's </em>neck <em>is directly in his face, and suddenly the automated voice is announcing the closure of the doors and the train is abruptly darting forward with a lurch, and apparently so is Louis. </em></p><p>Louis has a bad morning but spends an entire ten minutes pressed against Harry in a crowded subway train. It doesn't turn out so bad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we've people to see (let's put 'em on hold)

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: i do not own the characters its made up for entertainment yada yada and keep in mind i've been to chicago roughly twice (not that this necessarily has to be set in chicago. you may imagine as you like) (though i am thinking america since i cant do basic british principles for shit) so subway names and street names and apartment buildings are made up as well. i also dont know a lot about public transport so to the hardcore city-ers i apologize for potential mistakes. 
> 
> anyway ill stop rambling! enjoy!

Louis' actually demoting Zayn to passing aquaintance. He's already changed his contact name from " _zayner <3_" to " _confused elderly lady_ ".

It started with cold pizza for breakfast, which was innocent enough, but then it turned into tickle-fight-with-cold-pizza-coated-fingers, and now Louis' got grease stains on his white button-up with no time to change. 

So he's too busy having a mental breakdown to finish his breakfast, and Zayn shrugs but doesn't apologize (expected), and he's going to work in a high end office with grease stains on his shirt. Whatever. 

In a perfect world, he would get on the Lincoln subway and no actual passing aquaintance would miraculously spill anything else on him, or rather, his expensive suit. Actually, in a perfect world, Louis would have a car, or a personal chauffeur with a black Range Rover, or like, a bicycle. 

It's not a perfect world. Louis leaves the Lincoln subway with a chalk stain on his sleeve, iced coffee on his shoe, and a text from Zayn. 

**confused elderly lady** : _being a douche is seven yrs bad luck. :-/////_

***

The furthest Lincoln subway travels is to West Addison, so Louis is less than looking forward to taking another all the way to Monroe. He more or less rides the train every day, unless Niall the Drunk Cabbie is feeling particularily generous, but if he ends up with one more mark on his suit he might just go to work naked. 

He's already late, so he might as well be really late, and still slides his card in the ticket machine cautiously, touches the metal turnstyle like it's glass. If the hispanic man in fluorescent orange gives him a look, Louis refuses to acknowledge it. 

He waits patiently for the train to arrive, too afraid to perch on the wooden bench placed rather inconveniently in the middle of the oversized tile basement for fear of hidden stains. He's even a little tense about turning his head in the wrong direction, paranoid of the sticky substances lining the cement ceiling falling into his slick hair, but he bobs his head to the lip-syncing subway performer anyway. 

He's more than jittery when the train screeches to a halting stop, just short of a Dramatically Traumatized Germaphobe-induced panic attack. 

At least it's mostly sanitary, free of men coming from an early morning jog or stoners who don't use deodorant, unlike Lincoln. This time it's mostly confused tourists, hipsters, and thirty year-olds in matching video game convention t-shirts. _Lots_ of thirty year-olds in matching video game convention t-shirts. 

Louis scrambles, trying his best to avoid their soda-filled character-shaped souvenir cups, and ends up absolutely wedged between an obnoxiously tall man (no, boy, Louis notes on further observation) and an obnoxiously muscular man. Proper daddy, he thinks, but also not his type. 

He attempts to twist so he can breathe, but this boy's _neck_ is directly in his face, and suddenly the automated voice is announcing the closure of the doors and the train is abruptly darting forward with a lurch, and apparently so is Louis. 

He ends up with a mouthful of the young tourist in front of him, literally, he gags on the taste of his cologne. The boy's mouth falls open in apologetic shock, and when Louis glances up at him again it's the first time he gets a thorough look. He intends to berate him, teasingly of course, but his mouth falls open and he nearly chokes mid-gasp. If his first thought was _young_ before, it's _pretty_ now. His first observation had been so brief he could hardly call it an observation, but on the second he registers that the boy is sinfully _gorgeous_ and maybe not as young as he'd originally thought. Not that Louis could actually tell, he's one of those that can pass for twenty-five or eighteen. Either works, Louis thinks regrettably on an offnote. 

The boy is flushed and his bottom lip is caught between his teeth, brunette curls tumbling from a green bandana loosely knotted around his head. His broad shoulders are tight, and his loose tank top exposes biceps that are large and spattered with tattoos, but not immensely intimidating like Mr. Daddy pressed against Louis' back. The skin of Tourist Boy's upper arm is pulled tight, though, as he's clutching the strap above him. It makes his biceps flex deliciously, and briefly Louis thinks he might actually be sandwiched between his dream threesome on the subway. 

So with that thought fresh in his mind, it's then he decides he needs to speak. He questions how long he's been staring at the guy with his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth, and too long is the answer. He intends to introduce himself, and probably flirt, because Toursit Boy is proper fit and Louis is proper slutty. 

"Shit, oops, I'm so sorry," is his brilliant pick-up line. 

"Hi, er, I'm Harry," Tourist Boy rushes out at the exact same time. Maybe he didn't pick up on Louis' embarrassingly squeaky tone. 

So Tourist Boy is Harry, and Louis is beginning to believe in love, or lust, at first sight. 

Before he's composed himself enough to respond, the train lurches again and he's tumbling into Harry's chest. Back to square one it is, Louis thinks as he accidentally inhales Harry's scent. It's apple and mint (his cologne smells much better than it tastes) and photograph ink and tinged only slightly with sweat and Louis probably sniffs at him longer than was really necessary to meet the requirements of 'accidental'. He pulls his head away abruptly and refuses to acknowledge his creep-status sniffing, finally mustering the courage to blurt a few coherent words. 

"M'Louis. I'd shake your hand, but my hand's..." he trails off, glancing down to find exactly where his hand is. 

His hand is curled, or rather smushed, between their stomachs. Touching Harry's stomach. He wrenches it out unceremoniously and shoots Harry a shy smile. They exchange an awkward handshake, wrists twisting to make do with their limited spacing. 

"So, judging by your-" he narrowly avoids saying 'smell', "looks, you're not from around here, are you, Harold?" he asks suddenly. He high-fives himself internally. Louis is suddenly a man again. 

"My name's not..." Harry begins, then seems to rethink it and cut himself off. "No, I'm not." 

Louis hums. "What brings you to the city then? Business or pleasure?" 

Harry smirks at the word _pleasure_ , Christ he really is a child, then flushes and opens his mouth to speak. 

"I, uh, both. I'm a student photographer-"

"How student?" Louis cuts him off abruptly, feels bad for a second, but it goes away when Harry's smirk only grows.

"College. I'm nineteen," he answers. Louis nods. He's an aspiring business man at the age of twenty-six, he can do nineteen. He can _do_ nineteen. And he can definitely do nineteen year-old pretty boys with beaming dimpled smiles and nice smells and big, metal-clad hands. Not that he'd been looking that thorougly. 

"Anyway, I could pass this assignment by taking pictures of my backyard, but I've never been up here alone and it was an excuse to get my mum to pay for my train ticket." Harry finishes, and Louis is vaguely aware of the train lurching again, only this time he's not bothered when Harry stumbles further into his chest. When Louis gets a heavenly sniff of his neck again, it seems that the sharp tang of sweat has intensified slightly, only making it better. 

"You regret not asking for cab money as well, then?" Louis asks, briefly gesturing to the general two square-inch area between him and the person to his right. Harry considers for a moment, then shakes his head, more shiny brunette hair falling out of his oversized headwrap. 

"Nah. I was up taking shots of this weird statue on Clifford, then I took a cab up to Liam here's hotel..." Harry pauses to gesture at Mr. Daddy. Louis' eyes widen. 

So Mr. Daddy is Liam, and Harry knows Liam, and Louis is absolutely not saying a word. 

"...the driver was loud, and his hair was _so_ blond, and like, the radio was blasting Irish traditional music? I don't know, I don't think he was sober." Harry frowns adorably when he's done. Louis knows exactly who he's talking about, but he's still not daring to open his big mouth with Liam, who Harry _knows_ , right there, quite literally on top of him. He can actually feel the bulge of his dick on his bum and it's not even hard in the least. 

So he only nods. He's thankful for the next hurl of the train, because this time it tilts them sideways and presses them against the rails, and also it buys Louis a few seconds to regain composure. He opens his mouth to mention Niall's name and a factoid or too. 

"So, who's Liam, then?" is what comes out the minute his lips part. 

Harry lowers his voice, which is the first clue leading to a Bad Sign. Zayn's text reverberates throughout Louis' head. He's still chest-to-chest with Harry. 

"Oh, he's like my father of sorts," he murmurs with an eyeroll. He doesn't elaborate and Louis absolutely crumples. Maybe he'll need to request that threesome after all. 

The train sends them violently rolling back to the right on its next turn, away from the walls, and in an unsteady fear out of panic-induced adrenaline or simply more stains, Louis's fingers lock around Harry's shoulders, causing the fabric of his shirt to bunch as he near slams them into a pole in his rush to avoid falling into the people cluttered around them. 

Harry's eyes squeeze shut and his muscles twitch under Louis' grasp, and for a moment he's terrified Harry's actually the Hulk and he's done something terribly wrong. 

He doesn't grow or turn green though, to Louis' immediate relief, but he does tense up, eyes snapping open and lips falling apart as he stumbles over a half-coherent sentence. 

"M'sorry, I just...scared me a bit," he murmurs, punctuating the sentence with a breathless chuckle. Louis' still horribly confused, because Harry's still ridiculously tense, and his eyes are beginning to glaze over (blissfully?) and it's then Louis realizes he's still clutching his shoulders tight enough to bruise...and, oh. _Oh_ , Louis thinks. 

" _Oh_ ," Louis says aloud, and abruptly releases Harry. His muscles visibly relax, yet he looks the slightest bit disappointed, and Louis doesn't need to wonder why. He knows the answer far more intimately than he should, and he's so overwhelmed he can't move or speak or _breathe_. 

See, Louis' never been good at piecing things together. Making assumptions, yes. Fitting the puzzle together, no. Yet this is his first success, and one glance at both Harry's face and Liam behind him tells him he's right. 

He cannot be more relieved yet more disgustingly disappointed when Harry cheekily points out the grease stain on his button-up-

(" _You've got a..._ "

" _Shut it, I know I've got a._ ") 

\- and announces his stop, clambering off the train with Liam's hand on his shoulder. 

***

Seven hours later, Harry is hopelessly and miserably lost. So far, his first experience in the windy city has been everything he hoped for. Not just in the city, but like, ever. He's gotten manhandled by someone smaller than him, didn't make a git out of himself in front of previously mentioned fit manhandler, taken photos of everything ranging from towering monuments to people with strange pets. He's ordered small portions from every authentic-looking restaurant he saw, given more than he should've to every sign-holding homeless person on the streets he walked, been to a Brazilian-style strip club...and also lost Liam at said Brazilian-style strip club. He's lost, point blank, and the closest he can get to directions is a hungry onceover and a phone number. 

Liam is supposed to be responsible, both his guide and his bodyguard, but he can never resist dark-skinned full-lipped hot girls in various states of undress ("Look, Harry, you can see her bra through that shirt and everything!"). 

He remembers getting on the subway at West Addison and not much else, specifically because that's the fateful train he spent ten glorious minutes on with Louis, even if he was being sniffed so much it edged on probably-shouldn't-be-as-interested-in-this-guy-as-I-am. He went through an actual existential crisis when getting off at his stop, with no knowledge of when or if he would ever see him again.

The odds land somewhere between _probably not_ and _are you actually kidding right now there's three million people in this city_ , so he's verging on the 'if', and pathetically, tears. He can't believe he didn't bother to ask for a number. 

See, Harry Styles is a hopeless, _hopeless_ romantic. Harry Styles fell in love for the first time when he was eight. Harry Styles still believes in sparks flying during the first kiss. Harry Styles was the only one in his junior class who didn't think the time frame of _Romeo and Juliet_ was pitiful and ridiculous. And Harry Styles has never felt something click right into place as quickly as it did when he shared sweat on the subway with Louis, er. He doesn't know his last name, but he knows he wants to add it to his. 

He manages to find a subway that travels to West Addison without having a mild anxiety attack. He's early enough to where there's seats this time, but he just can't seem to stop giving them up for pregnant mothers and old ladies as the train fills once again. He's clutching the strap above him with his eyes shut, and it's getting increasingly hard to pretend the sweaty, slightly overweight man pressed against his back is Louis. He tries not to sigh blissfully when a more appropriate body is jostled into his front, goes much easier on his imagination. 

"Wow, the subway is not treating me very-" the voice cuts off, and Harry's eyes fly open. 

Harry's never been the pessimistic type. He had to spend the first four years of his life in a pink ballerina-themed nursery because the doctors had told his mom he'd be a girl, and he did it with flying colors, even taught himself how to pirouette based off the decorative stickers on his walls. But still, he'll admit to himself that he was feeling a bit hopeless about being lost in the city (he won't admit to himselt that it was mostly because he wasn't sure he'd ever see Louis again). 

And now he's opening his eyes, and Louis' directly in front of him, point blank. 

"Well," the shorter man drawls, his lips curling into a smirk as he himself processes the situation. "If it isn't my favorite touristy photographer. Get any good shots?" 

Harry's overwhelmed. He's being given a second chance, his second chance is clinging to him at this very moment. His second chance is talking about photography. He would really like to photograph his second chance's naked body. 

"I-hi," is all he can spit out. He remembers how Louis had looked at him for the first time, remembers internally raising his eyebrows and wanting to ask if there was something on his face, but now he's giving him the same awed, lingering look, he's sure. 

Of course, Louis is positively floored himself, but Louis is also smooth as fuck, and his sharp (grease stained) suit helps him tons with flirtatious charm. He sends a frantic text to Zayn before Harry's fully out of his shock-induced trance. 

**Message to confused elderly lady:** _ha loser_

 **Message to confused elderly lady:** _so much for 7 yrs bad luck u presumptuous dipshit_

He hasn't told Zayn about Harry at all, but he fully intends for him to find out later when he's fucking him into next year. Ever the exhibitionist, Louis is. Their apartment has thin walls, what can he say. His mind in suddenly bombarded with completely unwanted threesome images, and then he's reminded of his only obstacle. He twists his head to see if Liam's in sight, and his vision is limited by both his height and the dense mass of the crowd, but he's not in Louis' direct peripheral. He spends more time looking then is really necessary, but Harry doesn't notice because he's still staring at him with his mouth open like a knob. 

**confused elderly lady:** _ok_

"So, do you catch another train after this one?" he asks, not daring to mention Liam. He's still teetering on his heels with that whole situation. 

Harry seems to snap to his senses abruptly, his hands flying to Louis' shoulders when the train lurches. Louis doesn't even flinch, leans into it even. 

"I, uh, actually...I have no clue. Liam visits the city on business so often, and he was basically my guide, but I lost him at some Brazilian strip club, so m'...lost," he finishes with a bashful smile. Louis wasn't going to ask so soon, but it's the perfect opportunity, and he's always one to take chances when they're handed to him so blatantly. 

"Wait, your boyfriend ditched you for some foreign hooker?" Louis asks, masking the hidden question with faux dismay. 

" _Hey_ , it was a stripper, not a hooker, Louis, don't objectify," Harry reprimands, then pauses, then sputters. "Wait. You thought Liam was my boyfriend?"

"Well, you said a father of sorts, and he was young, so I-" 

"You thought Liam was my _daddy_?"

"He was so big and muscular-" 

"Liam's a family _friend_ , for fuck's sake, I can't _believe_ you actually-" 

"He had a _big dick_ -" 

"You - wait, what?" 

An awkward silence ensues, and if Louis had room to wring his hands he would. 

"So you're lost, then," Louis says after a beat. Harry doesn't actually seem mad, more appalled than anything, but they've basically bonded and he can't let it break over his own stupid assumptions. He should have just left it at boyfriend. 

"Yeah, er. Drastically. I'm thinking I might have to bunk at a hotel or something while I figure it out," he murmurs. 

"Oh, please, I'm a city rat, you dipshit. Tell me where you're headed and I'll have directions in three seconds flat," is what Louis should say. 

"I've got a bed for free," is what he actually says. 

Harry eyes flare, and the train chooses that exact moment to send Louis hurling into his chest. Two minutes ago he wouldn't have bothered to move away. Now he's made an arse of himself and he's unsure because Harry's just staring and hasn't said anything. Sometimes Louis hates being smooth. 

"What, like a couch? I have a bad back, a hotel's probably best," he finally responds. Louis can't tell if that's his way of saying no or if he's genuinely asking a question, so he takes a gamble for the potential of his getting laid (the potential of his finding his actual soulmate) and assumes the latter. 

"Like. Mine. My bed. Share," he blurts, flushing three shades of red. He's never had to explain a pick-up line and he decides right now that he never wants to do it again. 

To his immediate relief, Harry's face lights up. 

"Oh, in that case, why not?" he responds, chipper as ever. Louis lets out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding and his shoulders sag with released tension. The reply allows Louis to regain his cool, and his lips curl into a sly smirk. 

"Your stay includes tea and directions to the Metra tomorrow morning," he offers, smirk growing into a full blown smile. 

If Harry wants to question the fact that he could get directions at this very moment and be on his merry way, he doesn't. 

***

Zayn's on the couch bent over a painting of some sort when they clamber into the apartment, probably huffing way too many acrylic fumes. Louis ignores him, just gestures at him vaguely and exchanges an eyeroll with Harry. Well, he eyerolls at least, Harry only stares. He drags Harry into his room by the wrist, and Zayn flips them off, probably. 

Once they're inside, though, the atmosphere changes. 

Louis invited Harry home, which in any normal pulling situation, would imply sex. But Harry seems like your traditional Platonic Cuddling Sleepover Bro-Pal, and he's not sure how to get it on without potentially making things incredibly awkward and misunderstood. So he perches on the bed and pats the space next to him. Harry sets his tattered brown leather camera bag on the dresser and flops down unceremoniously, letting his entire upper body fall flush to the bed. His tank top rides up his stomach, and Louis can see his abdominal muscles stretching under his skin. His skin is so tan, and the band of his briefs is peeking out from the hem of his low-riding skinnies. Louis immediately notes a hundred spots he needs to remember to kiss in the near future. 

"So, 'spose you need something comfortable to sleep in," Louis says to break the silence. Harry beams. 

"Oh, I sleep naked. I mean, as long as that's okay with you." Of course he sleeps naked, he's an actual cherub. 

"No, that's uh...nice," Louis responds, and the term 'butterflies in his stomach' is an understatement. It's more like...six hundred schizophrenic men with jackhammers drilling into the lining of his intestines, but that's like. Irrelevant. 

Harry flashes his teeth again, his _straight straight straight_ teeth, and his dimple, his _deep deep deep_ dimple. 

"Mind turning off the light? I'm beat," Harry sighs, starts peeling off his clothes piece by piece. Louis doesn't hear him at first, too busy examining the new tattoos making an appearance. It's almost like opening a book, new words and new stories laid out on the pages of Harry's skin. At first he tries to ignore the giant moth smack-dab in the middle of his stomach to admire the intricacy of the sparrows, but then his brain concocts the glorious image of come streaked across the wings, pooled around the antennas. Louis' filthy, he really is. 

He flicks off the light before Harry can notice his staring, or rather, his boner. Also irrelevant. He somehow stumbles into trackies and a t-shirt, not trusting his self-control if he ends up naked himself with Harry at his side. 

"You know, I'm glad you're respectable," Harry sighs as soon as Louis' settled himself on one side of the bed. "I had the sense you might, like, murder me? Or pressure me into sex, or something equally as malicious." 

Louis' glad the lights are off. Harry can't see either the blood draining from his face or the hope draining from his soul. He may be able to hear it, though, because Louis lets out a noise in faux agreement that sounds more like a broken moan of despair. 

It's silent for a long time. If the dark didn't mask the ceiling, Louis would be staring intently at it. The next time Harry speaks, he jumps out of his skin. 

"You're gullible," he breathes, and his words land _directly above Louis' face_. He can't bother to wonder how long he's been there, because he's too busy trying to catch his own breath. 

That ends up getting delayed as well, because then Harry's kissing him. Or more like, kissing his nose. Harry's lost in the dark, and Louis' lost in his own mind. 

It's a bit of trial and error before he gets it right, but once his mouth finally finds Louis', it's bruising. He might whine a bit, not that he'll ever admit it. Harry's lips are soft and full and slick and slot with his so easily and then they're gone before he's even registered what's happening. 

It lasted for maybe six seconds, yet Louis' panting and overwhelmed and everything is hazy. 

"This okay?" Harry whispers against his mouth, his now free curls tickling Louis' forehead. His smell is intoxicating. Louis opens his mouth to answer yes, _yes yes yes_ , but Harry's not done talking. 

"Wanted to do that the entire train ride. Couldn't stop staring at your lips. And then you-your _hands_ \- "

Louis tilts his head up and sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, and from there, things get way too filthy way too fast. Their tongues touch before their lips really do, and Harry crawls between his legs as opposed to lying on his stomach at an awkward angle. Louis' never swallowed so much saliva that wasn't his own, never pressed bruises into someone's hips so fast, never gotten so hard just from kissing. He's sure he could come just from Harry's smell, Harry's taste. 

Eventually their snog turns lazy, and Louis ends up on top although he's not sure when or how it happened. His legs are clenched around Harry's thighs, arms caging in his head, fingers massaging his scalp. Their cocks have yet to touch even the slightest bit, but he can see Harry's so hard that his dick is peeking from his boxers, curved and flushed red against his belly. Louis' so drunk just from his lips that he could drown in his own bathtub. 

He thumbs at his tattoos, can't stop touching. Whether it's his hair or his cheeks or his chest or his lips, Louis' hands are there. 

He's just sort of laying on him now, still unsure of how far they're going, kissing leisurely. Grasping his chin between his fingertips, his dips his tongue into Harry's mouth and licks in deep, traces the expanse of every nick and groove, learns more about him through his taste. He notes with disconcern that he's being far more intimate than he usually bothers to with his pulls, but Harry's making these gorgeous noises and he's so spread out and perfect underneath him. He grinds down subtly once or twice, testing the waters, and both times Harry whimpers quietly into his mouth and his sinful hands find a different place to grope.

Louis thinks that's permission of sorts, but he's still idle with his touches even when he spreads his legs further on either side of Harry's thighs and hooks his ankles under the backs if his knees. 

"So," Harry says while he slides his fucking hands under the band of Louis' trackies and _kneads_ into the swell of his bare arse. His voice is already wrecked, breaks even on one syllable. Louis can't take the piss, though, because he's trying a little too hard not to choke when the tip of Harry's dry finger brushes his rim. "I'm thinking a handjob? I could jerk us off at the same time. I've got big hands." He finished with a dopey grin, squeezing Louis' left cheek for emphasis. Louis groans, and it's not because he can feel the metal of his rings pressing into his skin. 

It goes like this: as hot as the image of their cocks sliding together, tight pressure of Harry's calloused hand pulling off both of their lengths is, Louis' been provided with a great view of Harry's _huge_ cock for the past ten minutes, and he can think of things fifty times more pleasurable for the both of them. It's not like he's going to pressure Harry into anything, won't even make the suggestion if this is really what Harry wants, but this _can't_ be what Harry wants. He's got to be kidding. 

He is. As soon as he allows to Louis to internally combust for a full thirty seconds, he lifts his head so his lips brush against the shell of his ear. 

"Still gullible," he whispers, and Louis is _done_ playing passive. 

"And you're," he growls, tugging Harry's hair a little too hard to be accidental, "a fucking tease." 

That seems to be what Harry was going for, though, because he shuts his eyes and lets himself be gentally assualted while his body goes pliant. 

From there Louis' relentless, tugging and pulling his hair, tweaking his nipples, grinding his clothed cock against Harry's naked head so hard the headboard knocks against the wall. Harry sucks his tongue into his mouth, prolonged whimpers vibrating around it in wet warmth, while his hands slide from his back to his bum to his hips and back under his bottoms. 

It goes on for ages, Louis losing his t-shirt somewhere in the mix. When Louis arches his back up in order to nip at his sensitive nipple while simultaneuously continuing to dry-hump him, Harry gets so close to coming he has to physically hold Louis' hips in midair while he takes a breather. He's still clutching them when he strains his neck to fit their slick mouths together for a brief second, letting his lips hang parted when he drops his head back and hoping Louis gets the message. 

"Please, need your cock. Fuck, I- _please_ ," he whines when Louis remains frozen, the words landing in hot puffs of air on his lips. The next part is breathless and quiet, almost like Louis' not meant to hear, but he does. He hears, and his cock hears, and it's never been so hard nor twitched so violently his life. "Daddy." 

And _fuck_ ceremonious, fuck 'of sorts', because that sounds a _damn_ lot like permission. 

Louis' hands fly to tug down his trousers so fast that he gets whiplash. He's not wearing pants, so his leaking cock is exposed against his belly. Harry subtly drops his mouth open further, begging, and hell if Louis is able to resist. 

"Daddy's gonna take care of you, yeah? Gonna fuck your mouth?" he whispers, gentle tone not matching his filthy words. Louis hasn't actually done this before, but he's no stranger to awkward porn searches and he doesn't think he's ever _not_ been rough in bed anyway. What difference does one word make? 

See, Louis' your walking definition of fuck-and-run, but Harry's different. 

Of course, he wants to fuck Harry's brains out of his head at every given chance from this point on, but he also wants to cuddle him on rainy days and kiss his hair and pour him cereal. Harry's different. 

Harry's also starting to whine obsecenely with his tongue flopping out of his mouth because Louis' just staring with the base of his own cock gripped in his hands. He snaps out of it, threads one hand into his hair, the other guiding the tip of his cock between Harry's open lips. He has to squeeze his eyes shut the minute the head is engulfed in wet heat, feels precome dribble onto Harry's tongue. 

He slowly fits half of his cock into Harry's mouth before he lets go of the base. His hand travels to his mouth, pushing two fingers past his own lips while shallowly rocking his hips once. Harry goes nuts for it, whining around his cock and attempting to push him in further. He doesn't even glance at Louis' mouth, doesn't pay attention to him swallowing absurdly around his own fingers. He's got intentions, of course, but he's not keen on explaining them if Harry asks. He's not even sure Harry notices at all. 

He can't focus on his thoughts anymore, not after Harry's swirled his tongue around his cock and pushed his head down. He feels himself hit the back of his throat, feels Harry's nose nudging his pubic area. He lets his head loll back and eyelashes flutter prettily, rocking forward once, twice, until he's sure Harry can take it. 

"Tap my thigh if you need me to stop," is all he says before he lets loose. Harry only sputters twice, and blurts precome onto his belly both times. Louis doesn't hold back, even once there's tears pooling in Harry's eyes, even when he's fit two fingers into his own arse. He rocks forward into Harry's mouth, back on his fingers, rim stretching addictively as he scissors himself open. 

"Gonna - fuck, gonna come down your throat, then m'gonna - _oh_ \- ride you straight into the mattress, won't let you touch," he manages through gasps, having worked himself up to three fingers and Harry won't stop _moaning_ around him. He really, really needs to gain a sense of control. 

His hand jerks where it's twisted into Harry's disheveled hair, and then he's pulling off with an obnoxious pop just to pant out a hoarse, obscenely wrecked 'daddy'. Louis' quick to stuff himself back between his lips because that's it, he's coming. It's Harry's voice, it's the way his eyes had snapped open, glassy like he's high off of it, when Louis pulled his hair. It's his cursed stocky fingers punching so _close_ to his prostate but not close enough. It's feeling like he's being denied something even with his cock stuffed down Harry's throat, and it's overwhelmingly refreshing. 

His cock is still pulsing with aftershocks when he lets it falls from Harry's lips. He watches the younger's Adam's apple bob as he swallows his load, bends down to nip directly at the base of his throat. 

He then presses a gentle kiss to his parted lips, not positive if he's all there.

"That was amazing. You're amazing," he whispers. Harry only responds with an impatient whine. He's still there, and so is his very-apparent-very-hard cock. 

It allows them both to breathe when he stretches over to retrieve the goods from his bedside table. Louis still feels like he's coming, like the sensations of it are still trapped deep in his belly. He's hazy from it, he feels like he's drunk, he drops the lube twice before he's even gotten it out of the drawer. 

He scoots down Harry's body, resting his bum on his thighs while he tears the foil of the condom with his teeth and rolls it with caution onto his length. Harry's breathless gasps do not go unnoticed when he's gotten to slicking him up, spreading the lube in quick, firm jerks. He pulls him off a bit longer than necessary, can't get enough of the noises his hand is punching out. They're the same noises that get his blood pumping again, softened cock twitching with interest. 

"Please _please_ , not gonna last, daddy _pleasepleaseplease_ ," he begs, breathless as he desperately tries to keep his hips from spasming off the mattress into Louis' fist. 

"Shh, baby, daddy's gonna give it to you, baby. Gonna fuck me so good, I know it," Louis purrs in return. He feels like he's falling into a role, like he's exploring new territory while Harry preens at his compliments. It feels _good_ , being something, meaning something to someone during sex. It feels good to even feel, in general. And here he was thinking Niall the Drunk Cabbie was making up hopeless bullshit on his long ramblings about emotions. 

_I've never fallen in love so fast_ , he thinks as he slides upwards, hovering over Harry's cock. _I've never fallen in love at all_ , he thinks as he grasps Harry in his hand and guides his tip toward his lax hole. _I'm falling in love so fast it's ridiculous_ , he thinks as he sinks down, vaguely hears Harry's loud groan of relief. _My negative essay on the timeline of_ Romeo and Juliet _junior year doesn't seem so relevant anymore_ , he thinks as he pins Harry's wrists at his sides and swivels his hips experimentally once he's bottomed out. 

Louis purses his lips, lifting himself an inch and shallowly rocking back down. On a whim, he tangles his fingers with Harry's where they're pinned at his sides. It's not so much for the sensation of dominance as it is for self-control, mostly because he knows how much he can lose himself when he's got a cock buried so deep in him and it's important that he anchors himself down, concentrates on riding dick and not letting it get to him. It Harry's hands so much as graze him, he won't be able to keep himself in line. 

He starts slow, watches Harry's face contort beautifully as he focuses on the feel, the stretch of him. 

It's when his speed increases that he can't help it, needs to touch Harry, needs to bend his head to kiss him, needs to nip and bite as his neck, needs to taste the sweat glowing on his skin, _needs needs needs_ more than he can allow to give himself. 

He lets his hands roam and not much else, even though his blood pulses and his brain scrambles for more. 

So focusing on Harry isn't working. Instead, he focuses on the sounds. There's the harsh slap of skin on skin every time he seats his bum on Harry's thighs, but there's also noises with more substance. There's Harry, reduced to choked gasps and strangled moans and broken whispers of _daddy daddy daddy_. There's the consistant thump of the headboard against the wall, there's the high-pitched grunts and whimpers falling from his own lips, there's the blood roaring in his own ears. 

His hands travel up Harry's body, tracing skin and sweat and ink as he fucks himself down on his cock. His breath accelerates as he goes, just goes, goes, goes and ignores the burn in his thighs and the hair falling into his face. 

_I could do this for hours_ , he thinks as he lands on his prostate with a sharp moan. _I_ literally _could do this for hours_ , he thinks as he feels heat pooling in his stomach. 

"Next time we're gonna do this for hours," he says low in his throat, and then Harry comes on the promise of 'next time'. He rides and tweaks his nipples through it, fascinated with the way his cock jerked inside of him each time even as he chases his own release. 

The idea of lifting off Harry's cock before he comes is absurd, but he's close enough that he knows he can get off in seconds if he just - Harry wraps a hand around him without warning, and Louis thinks he'll void the no touching rule just this once. He comes with clenched teeth, spurting onto Harry's belly and into his fist. He comes feeling full even as Harry's cock softens inside of him, and lifts off once he's been jerked through his orgasm. He absolutely must pause to admire the come, _his_ come, pooled on Harry's lower abdomen and curling in a disturbing beautiful way around the details of the butterfly. _Hours_ , he thinks. 

He's stumbling about when he moves to wipe them both of his down, near trembling when he pulls Harry into his chest and combs his fingers through his hair, whispering sweetly about how good he was (and is, in more ways than one) for him. 

When he falls asleep, he's still recovering from the best orgasm of his life; Harry's just glad someone finally let him call them daddy. 

***

In a perfect world, Louis might have a car. He might be a multi-millionaire and be in some heavy punk-rock band with Harry. Actually, in a perfect world, he might have remembered to wash the stains out of his suit before he let them set in overnight. 

It's not a perfect world. Louis still leaves the Lincoln subway the next morning with a shit-eating grin on his face, Harry Styles in his bed, and a text from Zayn (he absolutely refuses to acknowledge the chocolate milk on his pant leg). 

**confused elderly lady:** _who is this buff daddy guy on our doorstep lol_

***

**Author's Note:**

> WOW. this took ages longer than i expected it to, and thankyouthankyouthankyou all for reading. it was literally so much fun to write and i hope it was equally as fun to read!!
> 
> first off i wanna thank kayla, kayla kayla kayla for being an excellent beta and an even better best friend. she told me what she liked and didnt like and she held my hand when i got frustrated or nervous <3
> 
> so with that out of the way, pls let me know what you thought! again this was sooo much fun to write. i worked **really** hard even though honestly words have never come more naturally, and i am a bit proud of how it turned out therefore comments and kudos would be greatly appreciated!! 
> 
> title from stop the world i wanna get off with you - arctic monkeys
> 
> again, hope you enjoyed, until next time :-)


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